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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27057754">Mi Estrella Oscura</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/trepidatingboarfetus/pseuds/trepidatingboarfetus'>trepidatingboarfetus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:55:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,085</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27057754</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/trepidatingboarfetus/pseuds/trepidatingboarfetus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael is the darkest star of Trevor's universe, slowly pulling him in, and he wouldn't have it any other way.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Mi Estrella Oscura</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>We all need a little more ¡Bottom Michael! in our lives. Dedicated to Hugo and Prim with love. </p><p>Inspired by Superposition by Young the Giant. &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The idea of fate and soulmates have always been one of utter bullshit to Trevor Phillips. His mother was a straight-shooting kind of woman, no time for romantic nonsense. Whatever notions she’d held for that had been beaten out of her and wrenched from her womb by the time his birth had been announced into the world, and he wasn’t the girl she’d been seeking. And that was how she had raised her children--</p><p>Eat the world before it can eat you.  </p><p>He wasn’t big on psychic mumbo jumbo either, but once as a laugh, he and a foster sister had visited one in Winnipeg. He wasn’t the older of the two, but Mother’s previous rigorous training had reminded him that his then sister, no matter if she were blood or not, didn’t need to go into the city on her own, and she had been head over heels over some cunt of a guy, so he had tagged along despite -- or maybe <em> because of </em> -- the danger of getting caught. Plus, he had been more than a little curious about all of the hubbub, if he were to admit it.</p><p>His “sister” hadn’t carried away much from that clandestine meeting beyond a distrust in men, psychics, and the Winnipeg Transit System while the foul old vermin had looked at him at the time and smiled a knowing bucktoothed smile that had sent shivers down his little adolescent spine before telling him two letters that would feel like the sealing of fate for the rest of his life: M and T. </p><p>He hadn’t paid anything. He hadn’t asked. But oh boy had she offered. Her dark heart had reached out into his, had known him, and had <em> offered</em>. </p><p>For years, he’d tried to connect those pieces, spent hours working the puzzle over and over again in his mind, looking for the solution until the day came that he’d cackled at himself for being so gullible for buying into all of that ridiculous hopeful kid shit...and then that same day he’d been planning an easy cargo run that hadn’t gone exactly as planned.</p><p>And suddenly M and T had slipped into their places in the puzzle, and his eyes had lit up like Christmas morning. </p><p>Michael was built like his skin was carved from the finest ivory but was as smooth as the slipperiest satin, and he wanted to lose himself in him often, but Michael’s resolve was something made of steel although Trevor could see the fallacies in the armor he wore, so they were brothers by day.</p><p>By night, they blamed the alcohol and drugs. The boredom. The creeping loneliness after a multitude of towns. </p><p>He’d never had a problem falling into anyone’s arms. He didn’t have the same hang-ups as Michael. OK, so maybe that was a whitewash -- he’d learned to become comfortable in his own skin mostly thanks to trial, error, the foster system, and the underground punk scene that had welcomed him into it during his teenage rebellion. He didn’t always love himself, but who fucking did. He came, he saw, he fucked and conquered. Came some more. </p><p>Michael was wrapped up in a ball of repression and romance. Everything was big beautiful weddings, white picket fences with lazy day houses, children with mutts, American dreams, fat wives with massive tits, and Friday night light sports fever all on old Super-8 film. </p><p>If he got him drunk enough, high enough, he could ease Michael past that soul-sucking wave of guilt. He could get him to wind down just enough to let him do beautiful things to him, and he’d found out how much he liked the taste and texture of Michael’s cock in doing so. Sometimes, it didn’t even take much persuasion to push Michael into that wondrous haze where he’d push Trevor onto his belly and rut into him like he was nothing more than common street trash, spill his seed without so much as a “thank you ma’am” when it was all done and over with. </p><p>And Michael Townley wouldn’t look him in the eyes for days afterward. In fact, he'd make himself so scarce that no one could figure out where the man with the golden aim had wandered off to. </p><p>It has gone on like this forever. They are Schrödinger’s couple. They are fine. They are dying. They are together. They never were. As long as the box remains shut, he doesn’t have to find out the answer. </p><p>He scares himself back to reality. Michael isn’t just a <em>best</em> <em>friend</em>. It’s gone beyond mere “bros before hoes,” beers at the bar, and having each others’ backs. No, he doesn’t want those stupid romantic black and white movie ideas that Michael has either, but he wants something close. He wants to meet somewhere in the middle, somewhere where their lips collide. </p><p>But everyone around them is yucking it up because they know that it’s hopeless, he thinks. Trevor is just another notch on the bedpost for Michael. Even Trevor gets it; he just wants to refuse to see it for what it is. He wants to play pretend a while longer because it’s easier to grasp at those old days of superstitious belief, believe that they were always meant to meet, that they were always meant to be. It was always them inside of the box. </p><p>There’s no scientific explanation for Michael showing up at his motel room at the wee hours of the morning, smelling sour like bourbon and strong like tobacco, and he offers none as he trudges in and melts into Trevor’s mouth with a simple exaggerated groan. </p><p>Just like that, Michael <em> becomes </em> his superposition. </p><p>Incoherent words babble through his mind and spill forth from his mouth in a collection of processed ramblings that eventually form a single chant: <em> I want you to want me the way I want you. </em> </p><p>The chant bleeds through into his kissing and lamenting because he’s surprised when Michael softly returns it with, “Yes,” before stripping his clothes.</p><p>Trevor’s painfully aware that he, himself, has always been on the lean sign, and a lot of that was due to Mother’s ministrations. She wasn’t a fat cow, and she didn’t want her <em> darling </em> pudgy either. He’d been counting calories, hooking a finger down his throat, and every other feminine technique departed onto him for so long, he wasn’t sure when he <em> wasn’t </em> actually doing it, so he’d always been very skinny. He still is. He’s afraid to eat anything. Mother’s voice still yells whenever he so much as looks at anything sweet. </p><p>Michael calls himself a fat ass but he’s built like athletes just <em> are </em> -- he’s firm muscles with a thin layer of fat. He is stocky. He’s an Adonis of old. God, how he wants him to understand just how beautiful he is, that to look at him is almost so painful because he smiles so much, it wears out his face. </p><p>They fall to the bed, and Trevor is prepared. He knows where this goes, where it always goes, but before he can slip onto his stomach, a hand stills him, and a blushing face meets the ground hesitantly, asking if they can do something different. </p><p>And Trevor nods stupidly because things are shifting in the box, and he doesn’t know what this means, but as long as he doesn’t step outside, he’s not dead or alive, so the sky isn’t falling, he thinks. </p><p>And yeah, maybe everything is definitely OK when Michael has him in the grip of his hand, tasting him. Everything is still in its place. </p><p>He takes a deep breath and tells Michael it feels nice but isn’t prepared for the man to engulf him in one go, and his mind splits into two parts -- one wondering <em> where </em> the hell he learned to do that, and the other wondering where the hell he learned to do <em> that</em>. Jesus Christ, he’s choking on his own sputum. </p><p>Something in his balls and brain meets, warning him that this venture won’t last long if he doesn’t stop this immediately, so he reaches out to back himself away with a loud huff and sigh, and doing so makes Michael look at him warily, wondering if he did something wrong, but he has to reassure him that no, fuck no, he did everything <em> way </em> too right. </p><p>He knows that somewhere outside of this room, this is probably wrong. Michael is more than tipsy. He’s married with little kids that Trevor adores as if they were his own. He should send him away. But the reality is that Michael will just find another person to fuck. And Trevor is an idiot who <em> loves </em> this man and wants him to love him back so desperately he can taste it in every atom that makes up his body. </p><p>He’s never been one for romance, but inside this room, he can pretend for tonight that he was raised as a normal person, just maybe, and he can look Michael in the eyes and fuck him in the way he needs Michael to fuck him.</p><p>Ocean waves meet molten sand as they wax and wane wildly together. He thinks his eyes are the most beautiful shade of blue like stolen sapphires he’s ever seen and kisses Michael under each one as he moves within him like a liquid burning fire. </p><p>His face is the most erotic thing Trevor’s ever witnessed, especially as he hits his peak and falls to pieces within his arms. </p><p>Adonis was a beautiful man, he knew from his books, who was cursed by the gods in various ways and was also fought over by them too because of his very beauty. He spent most of his year in the sunlight with Aphrodite, and one-third of his days were marred by biding his time in the darkness of the underworld with Persephone. </p><p>He felt like the situation was not unlike his own, with Amanda being the lovely Aphrodite who gets the gorgeous Adonis to love on most of the year while he’s the ugly Persephone who dwells away in hidden compartments within the earth from prying eyes and only gets to gaze upon and barely touch what can never truly be his the rest of the time. </p><p>In the twilight hours, they slip into each others’ arms easily enough as if it’s well-rehearsed even though it’s anything but. He kisses the forehead he’s been dying to kiss and murmurs sweet lullabies into the ears that he’s been waiting to fill with song. And wonders why he becomes like this in the dark hours of the night. Why, why now?</p><p>Why did the letters M and T come to mean so much to him? And if he stepped outside of this room, did they still mean as much? Were they lovers in other realms? Did they make it in other times, other places?</p><p>Something deep inside, something that old woman had looked inside of him and seen back during his still innocent enough youth, had reached out and shown them both that day that, indeed, in every universe, there were always versions of the letters MT and TP that intermingled, existing together, never apart. </p><p>Soulmates just simply <em> are</em>. There’s no explanation. It wasn’t a puzzle he could easily solve. </p><p>He embraces Adonis tightly to him in the darkness where they can still just <em> be </em> and brushes silky black strands of hair out of his face that have fallen carelessly during his slumber. He thinks about how this man seems to need so much from him during the most depressive parts of the night but in a few mere hours will be back to his normally sunny disposition.</p><p>Laughing, he realizes that Michael is truly the dark star of his universe. In both the literary sense and the physical sense, Trevor gravitates towards him for reasons unbeknownst to him other than a sense of “fate.” It’s the very reason he’s delved into mythology over the years. He needs a way to explain why the fuck he acts the way he does, but the more he sinks in, the more confused he becomes. </p><p>It doesn’t matter though. He’s perfectly content wherever Michael is, in whatever time he’s in, whether it’s in the heavens above, in the hells below, or the spaces between. As long as he can continue to love him the ways that he wants, that’s all that’s ever mattered to the boy who tried to solve the mystery of those letters long ago.</p>
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